Tag Archives: marriage

I want to add a Twitter account, so I can update the world regularly on my awesome parenting advice and world domination. I mean if you could see how well my kids behave, how clean their rooms are and the fact they start every morning, after bringing me breakfast in bed, with:

“Mommy, after we’re done feeding the homeless, what can we do for you today?”

You would understand why you need me in your life — on a daily basis. Moment by increasingly dull moment. Not sure how to parent your kid effectively, read this. Wondering how to talk to your teenager, have no fear, check out this. Thinking of improving your marriage? Look no further, I have all the answers here. I’m practically an expert on everything and I have the checkbook, the debt, the kids who adore me and the perfect marriage to prove it. Face it, you really can’t go on without me and my “advice”. (See, you didn’t even realize I was giving advice, did you? Don’t worry, neither did I.)

So, help me think of a name for a Twitter account. It can only be 15 letters. Your spouse, life partner, mother, sister, boss, friend will thank you for it. Or at least I will…

My husband who I’ve mentioned here and also a little here, has been extremely lucky. Not only has he been lucky with his choice of spouse (jackpot!) but also in his choice of profession. He’s had the opportunity to travel the world, while I’ve been left at home to take care of the children and eat bon-bons – no, I’m not bitter in the least. Why would I be bitter, as you can see in the following pictures it was probably too much for anyone to bear…

New Zealand

Slovenia

Rio de Janeiro

I told him if he went to Venice or Paris without me — we were done.

VENICE!

Last Straw. Rough draft of divorce papers were written. I almost felt pity because he did have to take a gondola ride with a bunch of guys. Almost.

There was no doubt in my mind that I was going on the next trip. So where did I begin? Well, Peru seemed the likely choice. So off I went with 3 kids to meet up with my husband and begin our own adventure.

Luckily this was before our credit cards were labeled, “We are too big to fail, but because you are so tiny we insist you will.” Due to a complicated second passport issue we were unable to reach Machu Picchu; but it was beautiful and awesome nonetheless. Plus it gave my family hysterical “bathroom” stories about Lima. Hey, no one said we were couth.

I’ve posted so much about parenting and my children; I’ve decided to post about something else: my husband. The quintessential Pollyanna, the man who whistles in the morning after 3 hours of sleep, the man who never gets sick, the man who plays with his and other people’s children, the man who stands up to talk to you or to offer his chair, the man who looks you in the eye and remembers your name along with your grandparents’ names or your hometown, the year you graduated high school and your first pet’s name. Let’s face it — the man’s annoying!

No, you say? Really? Have you ever had a great night out, which you are paying for with your dear life the next morning with only 3.5 hours of sleep, and your husband is whistling Dixie in the kitchen because, “It’s just so wonderful to be alive!” Once, I watched him save a cockroach. Seriously. Oh and he’s funny too — in a really bad sort of way. His jokes or puns are so silly, so utterly horrible, they’re funny.

So what do you do with such…perfection? Well for starters, you act like the yen to his yang. See, I wouldn’t be such a stressed out bitch individual if my husband wasn’t so squarely on the opposite end of the spectrum. If he wasn’t so gosh darn happy all the time there might be a little more happiness and optimism left for me or possibly the other angry 10 million people in the world. But for some strange reason he loves me. Or as he says, “Something with an ‘L’…” I think it’s because he knows this yen and yang thing and he likes being the happy one.

I’m kidding, kinda. Anyone who knows him will know what I’m talking about. I see fear in their eyes because they wonder if one night he will crack and let out what must be somewhere, some 38 years of pent-up frustration and I’ll be the target. But hell, maybe I’ll get to wake up the next morning whistlin’ Dixie. Until then I’ll just pull the covers over my head and pretend he’s really stomping around and he’s upset over something, anything.